


in floribus veritas

by Halmaithor



Series: amor in lingua florum [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Immortal Husbands, Implied Sexual Content, Language of Flowers, M/M, but like... less suggestive than the actual show itself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22221310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halmaithor/pseuds/Halmaithor
Summary: Alec ends up spending a lot of time at Magnus’ loft, and with him come the flowers.A canonverse AU where Nephilim have a certain affinity for plants; and Magnus knows that, but that doesn't mean he was prepared for anything like this.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Series: amor in lingua florum [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782700
Comments: 53
Kudos: 488





	in floribus veritas

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! A couple notes:
> 
> 1) A giant thank you to [ralf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ralf), whose enthusiasm for this idea has been encouraging me to get it finished since I first mentioned the idea. I really hope you enjoy the finished result, bud! <3
> 
> 2) The flowers mentioned in this fic have all been chosen for specific meanings. They should be pretty clear from context, but just in case you want a reference, [HERE](https://silver-latin-and-salt.tumblr.com/private/190206974041/tumblr_LEsyvj1XIbq4uhbJQ) are the meanings of each flower, in order of appearance and grouped by scene. 
> 
> 3) As this is a canon AU, it uses more canon dialogue than my usual fare. I make no claim over such material.
> 
> Please enjoy! <3

The first time he notices it happening, Magnus blames himself.

The apartment is empty now, Clary and the other Shadowhunters gone, and it’s not until he feels something brush against his leg that he looks down and spots the tiny rose bush. He frowns, sending a cursory pulse of magic through it, and his jaw drops as he’s almost overwhelmed by déjà vu. His heart flutters, his stomach twists a little, and he feels himself smile on reflex; just as Alec seemed to when they officially met, when they exchanged names and gazes and stood close enough to send an almost-forgotten thrill down Magnus’ spine.

 _Right on this spot,_ he realises.

He crouches down, runs the stem through his fingers – it’s smooth and cool to the touch, bearing no thorns to protect its burgundy blooms. Other than that (and the small fact that it’s growing straight out of the floor, as if the walkways of this place were cushioned with compost), it appears to be a perfectly normal plant.

He shakes his head, a little self-deprecating. _You idiot. Nearly eight hundred years of learning to handle your magic, and you let something like this slip through the moment you meet a cute guy? Just because he’s tall, and handsome. Well, more like beautiful, especially when he smiles. And surprisingly down-to-earth for a Shadowhunter. Not to mention that he pretty much saved your life tonight –_

He waves his hand sharply as he straightens up, banishing both the rose bush and that runaway train of thought.  
The rose ends up in a quiet meadow in the Seelie realm.  
He’s not so sure where the thoughts go. Or how long it’ll be before they come back and get truly out of hand.  
  


***  
  


The next time he notices it, he knows it wasn’t him, but that’s not at all comforting.

He’s sitting at the table, eating the Belgian waffles that Alec declined to share (because of _course_ he did, he’s quite clearly closeted and much as he _trusts_ Magnus he doesn’t _know_ him, not really), when he catches a whiff of something light and floral and decidedly _not_ breakfast.

He stands from the table, suddenly a little wary because when half your job is potion-making, unexplained smells rarely mean good news.  
But thankfully, the pleasant aroma isn’t coming from the apothecary. It’s coming from the flowers sprouting all around the couch, and the armchair, and the coffee table.

He waves a hand, but once again detects no malevolence, just a rush of emotion _(comfort, amusement, butterflies in his stomach)._ Clearly, the flowers are manifesting some echo of what the room has seen – but while he may have believed he could conjure a single rose bush by accident, in the heat of the moment when his magic was still running high from the fight, this particular floral arrangement is far too extensive for that to be a possibility here.

He banishes the freesias to the same Seelie clearing as before, but he lets the dandelions fall with a soft scattering noise onto his apothecary table. They’re hardy and digestible, which makes them a good base ingredient for potions. Especially the more… _experimental_ ones.

Magnus wanders back to the dining table. He’s not sure what’s going on – possibly a stray spell from an object he’s picked up recently, or a minor disturbance in the veil – but if the worst thing it’s doing is conjuring flowers, it can afford to wait until after breakfast.

Besides, it’s always easier to solve mysteries on a full stomach.

  
***  
  


The third time is when Magnus finally figures it out.

‘I will not ask again.’  
He leaves the room, because he has to. He’s put all his cards on the table. Alec may have everything to lose, but Magnus has nothing left to give.

He’s not even surprised when he puts his hands in his pocket and his fingers brush against something soft and fragile. He pulls out what looks like a strand of dark hair with hundreds of tiny leaves posted along it, dispassionately notes the echo of the _want_ that’s been building in his chest ever since that night at Pandemonium. _  
_ What _does_ surprise him, when he re-enters the room a few minutes later, is the trail of footprints. They lead from the centre of the room to the front door, the furthest ones misshapen where the door must have clipped them on Alec’s way out. They’re made of holly and exude anger and frustration, even without Magnus actively searching them.

He doesn’t know how the hell he missed it. It seems so obvious now, confronted by _Alec’s_ footprints, the impossible shade of _Alec’s_ feelings in the air around him.  
_It’s not my magic, not by accident or by proxy.  
It’s _his.  
  


***

  
Contrary to what Ragnor, Cat, and Raphael might say, Magnus is no fool. He’s lived through enough centuries and met enough Shadowhunters to know about their _minor blessings;_ a phrase which is still bandied around, because apparently the Clave thinks itself too important to call a spade a spade.  
Or, in this case, call a garden trowel a green thumb.

 _Magic is_ life, Magnus remembers hearing once. It was either Ragnor or himself who said it, though it’s hard to recall which because they were both rather drunk at the time. But regardless, it holds true – and while demonic magic is the life of fire and lightning and fury and time, angelic magic is softer, subtler. Demonic magic _fixes_ or _changes,_ but angelic magic _enhances,_ as evidenced by the runes branded onto the skin of Raziel’s children.  
One of the more harmless effects is that Nephilim, by and large, have incredible skill with plants. Nothing on par with the Seelie, of course – the heady blend of angelic and demonic magic lends itself to staggering feats, whole cities built of living vines and lightning-struck forests being resurrected and healed. But still, on this plane, even brief exposure to an angelic aura can seem to make a plant brighten, as though it were a child whose best friend had come round to play – and if a plant is cared for full-time by a Nephilim, it will bloom strong and steady and almost unfailingly become a prime specimen of its species. In fact, back in the days before Valentine and his ilk started stirring their unrest, sending the Shadow World tumbling back a good few decades in terms of inequality for Downworlders and Clave superiority, Magnus had some fairly good business relationships with Shadowhunters who grew rare plants that could be used for spells and potions.

It’s a shame, he’s often thought, that the Nephilim took it upon themselves to be the Shadow World’s military and police instead of the Earth’s gardeners. The world may have been greener and kinder for it.

But that’s by the by, and this isn’t just a green thumb on display – Alec appears to be _manifesting_ plants into existence, inadvertently conjuring or summoning them from gods-know-where. Magnus has heard rumours of this before, once or twice, but it’s not nearly as well-documented as the general _minor blessing._ As far as he knows, it’s a sign of overwhelming emotion, of something too powerful to be contained by the soul alone.  
He snorts. No wonder it’s a mystery – Shadowhunters pride themselves on control, on not succumbing to the _distraction_ of daring to feel something. Those who fail are seen as rebels at best, abject failures at worst. Perhaps if that weren’t the case, Institutes would be colourful, green places, swirling with free feeling, rather than the clipped and cold and stark places they almost unfailingly are.

Magnus has seen the way Alec carries himself. How careful he is. The stern panic that takes over when his mask of control slips.  
It goes to show, then, how much Alec is struggling with that control, if his burdens are spilling over into these green manifestations. And despite everything – all the angry words, all the fierce denials – Magnus’ heart breaks a little at the thought.

  
***  
  


The stunned silence that falls when Magnus slams into the ceremonial hall is quickly replaced with murmurs. Shock, outrage and idle curiosity fill the air, in fairly equal measure.

‘Magnus,’ Maryse says, because of _course_ she thinks she’s entitled to his first name, ‘leave this wedding, _now-‘_

He holds up a hand. ‘Maryse, this is between me and your son. I’ll leave if he asks me to.’ It’s easy to stave off her anger, because his is reignited by the sight of Alec – or more specifically, the grass at his feet, the small pink flowers with upturned petals. It might be beautiful, if it weren’t for the utter sadness radiating from them; and maybe Shadowhunters can’t feel the flowers’ cause as warlocks can, but _gods,_ they have to know this isn’t normal, don’t they?

It’s that anger that allows him to plant his feet, to stand his ground against the scrutiny while Alec stays frozen. Because even though this is what Magnus wants, he’s no stranger to self-sacrifice – but this isn’t right for _anyone_ truly involved, he knows that beyond a doubt, and if someone has to take the first step, the first dozen or hundred steps, to stop it? Magnus will do that. For himself, and Alec, and even Lydia, he’ll take this last chance. He’ll take this step.

Alec takes the next one.  
And the next, and the next, until he’s all the way down the aisle, leaving a trail of snowdrops in his wake before he takes Magnus by the lapels and _kisses_ him, right there and then; fully, unashamedly, declaredly.

It’s a long moment before they pull apart, before Magnus sees the four-leaved clovers he could feel winding around his jacket collar, the green carnations woven into a crown around Alec’s temples, even – he notes with a quiet chuckle – honest-to-gods _mistletoe_ hanging above them. ‘You never cease to amaze me, Alec,’ he murmurs.  
‘Yeah,’ Alec says, breathless, a little dazed-looking. ‘What did I just do?’

And with the leaves around them still radiating _joy_ and _want_ and _truth,_ Magnus can’t help but smile. _The right thing,_ he thinks.  
  


***

  
Things move quickly after that. Despite everything happening with Valentine, everything around them threatening to drive them apart, they manage to hold on – finding solace in each other’s company, the knowledge that this is _real_ and _safe_ and _theirs._

Alec ends up spending a lot of time at Magnus’ loft, and with him come the flowers. Which is fine by Magnus, of course. The most common are lavender and orchids, which he’s always had a particular fondness for – but he quickly finds himself drawn to the nuances, the blooms that only appear in certain circumstances. On evenings where they end up curled together on the couch, murmuring sweet nothings, tall, lily-like flowers will start to appear. If Magnus pays Alec a compliment, he’s delighted to find that pink blossoms the _exact_ colour of Alec’s blush will suddenly surround them.

Perhaps his favourite, though, are the light purple roses that sometimes appear from the ceiling – and when he works out that they’re caused by his magic, or rather Alec’s reaction to it? Well, who could blame him for flaunting his powers a little more than usual? A door opened here, a stereo turned on there – almost nothing in terms of the magical cost, but worth everything in terms of Alec’s seeming delight.  
His magic has been valued before, of course. But something about Alec’s appreciation feels… _purer._ Less self-serving than he’s ever known – especially from a _Shadowhunter,_ for goodness’ sakes. There’s no covetousness, no malice in the strange aura those roses exude. Just a kind, quiet sort of wonder, something that makes Magnus’ heart flutter and whisper to him that _this, this is different._

It’s one of the reasons he’s initially hesitant to make things physical between them. _I fear I may lose you,_ he says, and to some extent it’s the truth – but more accurately, he fears they may lose _this,_ this strange, sweet affection. Perhaps it’s wrapped up in old-fashioned ideas of _purity_ equating to _chastity,_ and he wouldn’t normally have time for such pretentious notions, but sometimes he hardly dares breathe for the disbelief that what they’re building together won’t tumble like a house of cards.

But mutual desire is rarely best denied, and once they’re both on board, things are moving quickly once again because they _aren’t_ a house of cards, they’re brighter and faster than the wind and in the face of such sweet, swift devotion, Magnus could never feel like he, like _this,_ is fragile.  
_You have nothing to worry about. I want this.  
Do you not want to? – Of course I do.  
You’re beautiful._

The next morning, they wake in each other’s arms. A lazy hush of contentment settles over them as they talk softly, and it feels like sunlight, like the stretch and sigh that starts a well-rested morning.

Eventually, Alec says, ‘You know, you’ve never asked about the flowers.’  
Alec’s staring up at the ceiling, so Magnus can’t meet his eyes as he’d like to. Instead, he glances around the room, at the latest evidence of Alec’s moods and mindset. The sweet scent and gentle pink glow of honeysuckle and dog roses and sweetpeas wind above their heads, enveloping the headboard. Red roses climb the curtains across the room, filtering the morning light into something gentler and warmer than the cold winds in the mid-autumn sky should allow. But perhaps most impressive is the floor – Magnus’ bedroom has been _entirely_ re-carpeted with reds and oranges and whites and purples, the soft petals of calla lilies and striped tulips covering every last inch.

Magnus shifts his gaze back to their source, and smiles. ‘Well, I know a little about it. I know this kind of… _intense_ manifestation, rather than the usual ‘minor blessing’, can be caused by powerful emotions – a reaction to overwhelming events. When I first realised they were coming from you instead of me, I thought it was just a slip of control, but as things have continued… I suppose I didn’t want to make you self-conscious of something so beautiful. I was just happy you felt comfortable allowing them to bloom, instead of hiding them away.’ He pauses, realising that Alec still isn’t looking at him. ‘Unless there’s something else about them?’

The quiet between them lasts a moment longer, and Magnus is just about to reassure him that he doesn’t need to explain if he doesn’t want to, when Alec speaks again. ‘You’re half-right.’ He sighs and shuffles a little, but keeps his arm tucked around Magnus’ shoulders, so Magnus curls in a little tighter towards him, offering his full attention. ‘They are linked to… what we feel,’ Alec continues. It’s a little stilted, but not reluctant – more like he’s choosing his words carefully, and trying to keep balanced in his seeming vulnerability. ‘And you’re right to say that at first, I just couldn’t help it, meanwhile now… I let my guard down around you. But it’s more than that.’ He glances up at the headboard, reddening a little, and Magnus bites back a smile, suddenly remembering that Alec can feel the echoes of what was behind each particular bloom, even though he’s not a warlock. They were _his_ feelings _,_ after all. ‘Most Shadowhunters don’t experience this… _level_ of manifestation,’ he says, his tone turning slightly professional even as his blush deepens a shade or two. ‘Even with huge, life-changing events, or when they completely let go of their control, this is _way_ beyond the norm.’ His eyes finally flick to meet Magnus’. ‘And that’s because of you.’

‘Me?’

Alec nods. ‘Yeah. Your magic, to be exact. I can’t – I can’t explain how I know, but I can _feel_ it. When I’m around you, I can feel the same sort of ebb and flow as any time I let my guard down – like when I’m hanging out with Izzy, or when I turn in for the night and I’m alone in my room. But then something _happens_ – and it’s like it _magnifies_ somehow, and starts spiralling out of control.’ He chuckles. ‘It freaked me out at first, but when you didn’t say anything about it – when you turned up to the wedding anyway… I knew it didn’t bother you, and I knew it would be hard to stop in any case, so I started to just… let it happen,’ he admits.

He’s still looking Magnus in the eyes, but he looks half-afraid again now – as if Magnus is going to ask him to tone it down, or maybe just outright reject the flowers, now that he knows the full story.  
Instead, Magnus raises a hand to cradle Alec’s cheek, and drops his glamour. ‘Of course they don’t bother me, Alexander,’ he murmurs – still marvelling a little that Alec meets his true gaze in wonder, rather than fear or revulsion. ‘They’re beautiful.’

Alec smiles, and Magnus returns it, satisfied. ‘Besides,’ he says, resettling so the back of his head is more comfortably pillowed on Alec’s chest, ‘I liked them when I thought they were just you – but now I know that they’re sort of… _us,_ too?’ He reaches down and takes Alec’s hand, lacing their fingers together. ‘I think I like that even more.’  
‘Yeah,’ Alec says softly, his hand briefly squeezing Magnus’. ‘Me too.’

  
***

  
‘Magnus, I… I love you.’

It manages to render him speechless for a moment, because that word is new between them.  
But it’s only the word that’s new, only the sentiment in _this_ language – because the truth of it has been around them for weeks now, winding around every piece of furniture in the loft, stretching across expanses of daylight and even blooming soft and small in the shadowy corners. A low, constant hum against Magnus’ magic, quietly surrounding him, trying to make him _understand.  
He loves you. He loves you. He loves you._

Perhaps that’s what makes it so easy to find the courage, the _faith_ he needs for this moment. ‘I love you too.’

And then Alec is in his arms again, strong and safe and _alive,_ like the scarlet tulips that bloom around them and whisper an echo of their confession like it’s a prayer.

_He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.  
  
_

***  
  


‘Magnus, ever since our… _fights,_ I… I can’t – I can’t think straight.’

Magnus shakes his head, at a loss. ‘Well, I can’t do anything without thinking of you.’ He doesn’t dare meet Alec’s eyes, trying to keep his tone unaffected – which would be easier, if he weren’t feeling quite so affected. If he hadn’t spent this past week in a grieving haze, if he hadn’t kept noticing all the flowers still around him; the dahlias in front of the Seelie Queen, still the table’s centerpiece after the other day, when _Mr Bane_ had waltzed into the Downworlder Council meeting with a barely-concealed smirk and shaken the hand of _Mr Lightwood._ The buttercups and hyacinths and crocuses which adorn the spare bedroom in gold and red, a vestige from when Madzie stayed over and the three of them wound up chasing each other around the room, laughing until Magnus could barely breathe and would be content never to do so again if he could just live in that moment forever. The red chrysanthemum, still tucked into the pocket of the jacket Magnus was wearing when he told Alec _I love you too, but I can’t have both._

Proof of Alec, of _them,_ all around him. Wilted, now, but still present – a ghost of those feelings brushing against his consciousness, faint but not entirely faded.

Magnus glances down at their feet as they talk, unsurprised to see a slowly creeping carpet of simple yellow blossoms. They lend truth to Alec’s words, but he knew that already – what strikes him now, what forces him to stop and take a deep breath, is how _alive_ the feeling is around them. This isn’t the fading echo he’s been surrounded by since they’ve been apart; it’s vibrant, and immediate, and _gods_ has Magnus missed it.

He smiles. ‘You know what’s _not_ an understatement?’

  
  


They walk home, and when tiny blue flowers twine around their linked hands, Magnus just holds on all the tighter.  
  


***

  
There are still flowers, even now. Maybe if Magnus didn’t feel so fucking _empty_ all the time he’d find that painful; to have proof, right before him, that his magic is still _there._ That Alec can still reach it, use it in some way, when Magnus himself _can’t._ He can’t even _feel_ it anymore, thanks to whatever Asmodeus did.  
Idly, Magnus wonders if his father has gleaned enough pain from their little transaction to make it worth his while, or whether Magnus’ numbness has left Asmodeus wanting, feeling equally hollow. The idea gives him a low, grim satisfaction.

Of course, besides his newfound mortality, another part of being so completely cut off from the magic in his blood is that he can’t _feel_ the flowers anymore, can’t _sense_ them beyond his mundane sight and smell.  
Which is perhaps why it takes him a few days to realise that they’ve changed.

It’s the poppies on the coffee table that clue him in. They’re white, like they’ve lost all their scarlet vibrance to the geraniums blooming right beside them, and it’s a slightly disconcerting sight. It makes him take pause, properly looking around – the lavender is thriving on the balcony, as usual, but it’s intertwined with larger orange blossoms that press close to the brickwork. And when Catarina arrives, asking if he’ll watch Madzie the next day, she walks in on a carpet of daisies and sits on a cushion of folded red blooms. ‘I feel a little bad, squashing these,’ she says as she takes a seat.

Magnus chuckles. ‘Ah, you get used to it. They’re sturdier than they look.’  
‘Speaking of your personal florist,’ she says with a smile, ‘is he gonna be here tomorrow? I know Madzie would love to see him.’  
‘Yes, he should be around. He hasn’t gotten sick of me just yet.’

The jibe slips past his defences before he can stop it; and when he tries to play it off with a hollow smile, Catarina just frowns at him, her concern clear. But before he can say another word, her eyes brighten, and he can practically see the idea spark in her brain a moment before she sits forward, reaching out to him. ‘Give me your hands,’ she says, a quiet command, and one that he readily obeys before he’s even realised that he’s doing so. _Nurse tactics,_ Ragnor used to call them. Not even Raphael was immune, back when the four of them lived together.

Cat closes her eyes, and Magnus gasps as a rush of feeling washes over him – _Alec’s_ feeling, the thoughts and instincts that led to the blooms around them. It’s strange, because there’s no accompanying buzz of magic, but it’s still more familiar than foreign, and Magnus swallows hard against the lump forming in his throat.

‘He’s not a warlock,’ Cat says gently, ‘so I won’t say he understands, but he knows that this is hard for you. And he _loves_ you, Magnus. I honestly don’t think he’s going anywhere.’ She opens her eyes and allows the connection to fade, but keeps hold of his hands. ‘And for the record? He isn’t the only one.’

Despite the wetness in his eyes, when Magnus smiles at her in response, it feels more genuine than it has in days.  
  


***  
  


For one horrible moment, Magnus thinks that Madzie is really there, and he’s torn between the urge to shout _Run, sweetpea!_ and the instinct to jump Iris from behind without any verbal warning – because maybe he doesn’t have his magic anymore, but he still has his fists and his rage and his furious _love -_  
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees white heather start to bloom in the shadows.  
_Alexander._

His relief is soured by his hatred of his own helplessness, but it’s relief nonetheless.  
He takes a breath, keeps his distance, and waits.

The next morning, on his way out to fetch breakfast, he catches sight of a single tiger lily on his apothecary table. He can’t feel it, of course, but he doesn’t need to – he remembers this one, from _before._

_You know, I’m proud of you._

He plucks it halfway up the stem, and fights a sudden, strange urge to crush it into pulp – why won’t Alec just admit that Magnus is _weak,_ that he’s _nothing_ now -  
Instead, he closes his eyes for a moment, steadying himself, and then carefully tucks the lily into his coat’s top buttonhole.

He _isn’t_ powerful, and he certainly isn’t worthy of Alexander’s pride. But he _is_ loved.  
Maybe one of these days, that will start to feel like enough.

  
***

  
‘What’s _he_ doing here?’

Lorenzo is starting to wonder that himself. Much as he enjoys the justice of seeing the great Magnus Bane brought so low – _arrogant Edomspawn; what did he expect, trying to contain two magics inside of him? –_ he didn’t come to bear witness to a petty lovers’ spat.

‘Can we just get a minute, please?’ _Gladly,_ he thinks, turning on his heel and rolling his eyes as Bane raises his voice again. If being owed a frankly _colossal_ favour by the Head of the New York Institute wasn’t such a boon, he’d keep walking. But for now, he simply waits outside, enjoys a moment alone – far better company than he’s been supplied with so far today – and takes an appreciative breath of fresh air. The veritable rainbow of roses around Bane’s bed were starting to give him a headache with their cloying stench; or perhaps that was just the sentimentality, leeching off of them like a heat haze. _Honestly, Lightwood, the whole_ world _must know by now how attached you are. Don’t Shadowhunters usually pride themselves on their emotional control?_

He sighs, not really eavesdropping, but unable to miss the rise and fall of angry voices. From the sound of it, this might take a while.  
Yes, Lightwood is really going to owe him one hell of a favour.

  
***

  
‘No no no no, please – Look I’ve, I’ve lost everything, I – ‘ This isn’t real, this can’t be real. Except it is, and he _knows_ he doesn’t have anything to offer, not anymore, but he _can’t_ – ‘I can’t lose you too, Alec, okay?’

Words aren’t working, this isn’t _working,_ and he kisses him – but it feels wrong, because Alec always kisses like he’s trying to give Magnus all of his heart and soul in that touch, and now he doesn’t even kiss Magnus back, even when he tries a second, third time -

But he’s still there. He hasn’t pulled away, not yet, and maybe – ‘Stay with me, okay?’ Magnus whispers. He smiles. _Please, I can – I can do this, for you, I can_ find _that spark again, but only if –_ ‘Come on. Stay with me.’

‘Magnus,’ he says. And it sounds like _goodbye._ And he’s pulling away. ‘I can’t.’  
The world drops out from underneath Magnus, and he barely hears the _I’m sorry,_ the sound of the door.

  
  


He’s not sure how long he stands there, but when his vision clears, he’s standing in a circle of flowers. Short, purple spires, some thicker than others. Other, flatter blooms, scattered around him, looking bizarrely like crumpled, bloody bandages.  
He doesn’t need magic to know what they mean.  
After all, Alec’s just told him, hasn’t he?  
  


***  
  


Magnus only stops walking again when he reaches the _LOVE_ sign, his heart lurching as his eyes immediately find the words _Aku cinta kamu_ nestled amongst the other locks, as well as the honeysuckle vine – the one that had sprouted as soon as Alec clicked the lock into place, and was now curled all around the sign’s framework.

The grief in Magnus’ chest flashes briefly into anger. Portalling to this side of town was instinctive, a way to quickly gain some distance from Asmodeus. Is there nowhere he can go, nowhere that once felt _safe,_ where he won’t run headfirst into some trace of _him,_ of _them?_ Hasn’t he lost enough?

With the lock reduced to no more than ash, and he turns his power on the base of the honeysuckle.  
But when the red burns away, the vine is still there. A little scorched, now, but still intact.

Magnus frowns, confusion creeping in – but then the warmth that his fire loaned the air carries the sweet scent to his lungs, and he swallows hard as his magic reaches out on instinct, feeling for the echoes of what created it.

_…To show their eternal love.  
I wanted us to have a lock, too._

He turns and strides away, and if he weren’t so close to tears, the bitterness might twist his mouth into something resembling a smile. That feeling of _promise,_ of _forever_ – it’s absurd, but he almost feels like all those flowers, all those echoes of their intertwining magics, should have known better.

But perhaps that’s just a way of saying that _he_ should have known better.

  
***

  
‘You can’t be here.’  
‘I can’t be anywhere else.’  
He’s looking at Alec with a kind of joyful wonder, but all Alec feels is panic. ‘No, you don’t understand,’ he says. This wasn’t part of the deal, and he can’t risk – ‘We can’t be together-‘

‘Asmodeus can’t come between us again,’ Magnus interrupts, and all of Alec’s protests die in his throat. _He knows. He knows, but he’s still –_ ‘I know about the deal,’ Magnus says softly, ‘and why you did what you did. It’s- it’s okay, I-‘  
But Alec doesn’t, can’t, wait another second, just reaches out and pulls Magnus close, kisses him with all the _I love you_ and _I’m sorry_ and _I just wanted you to be happy_ he can muster. He can feel Magnus’ magic – not the dulled glow he’d grown used to, but something vibrant, alive in its own right, just like it was _before._ He feels Magnus smile against his lips, and when they break apart he sees the snowdrops winding up Magnus’ lapels, and can’t help but smile too.

And then, as suddenly as he arrived, he’s gone.

The portal closes behind Magnus, and Alec clenches his fists so hard he can feel the ring dig softly into his flesh. His engagement ring, which means that they’re going to get _married,_ which means that Magnus has to come back, right? He _has_ to. There’s no other option.

All the strength leaves Alec in a rush, and he falls to his knees, the impact cushioned by a thick carpet of marigolds.  
_Come back,_ he thinks. _Please come back._

There’s a flash of light in the sky, and the rift closes above them.  
  


***  
  


Nothing grows in Edom. Nothing natural, anyway.  
But folded white petals are starting to unfurl on the windowsill, and the second he registers what’s happening, he hears a distant call.  
_‘Magnus!’  
_He’s transfixed a moment longer, shock rooting him to the spot, but the next call comes from much closer. ‘Magnus!’

The spell breaks, and Magnus turns around – ‘Alexander!’ – and practically _launches_ himself at his fiancée. And Alec is there to catch him, gods, he’s _there –_ and this is real, it has to be. How else could anything bloom in this godforsaken place?

Magnus pulls away – not completely, not daring to break contact, not yet – and when he eventually notices the rest of the room, he barely hears what Lorenzo says, because nothing grows in Edom but they’re standing in a veritable _meadow,_ surrounded by white carnations and tiny ivory bells.

 _I’m never leaving you again._  
Maybe Magnus should protest that, tell Alexander that he shouldn’t, can’t stay. But right now, all he can think of is how much braver he feels, now that he isn’t facing this alone.  
  


***  
  


It’s a while before they can return to the loft – there are people to update, injuries to check over, and then a general dazed feeling _(What now? Is it really over?)_ that delays all of them – but eventually, the two of them step through the portal hand-in-hand, and they’re _home._

They just stand there for a moment, and Magnus is _right there_ in front of him, and if it weren’t for the grounding ache of abused muscles and tired eyes, Alec would worry that this was a dream.  
Magnus breaks the silence. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he says with a smile, one hand trailing softly down Alec’s back, ‘but I could use a drink.’  
Alec huffs the barest hint of a laugh, because that’s simultaneously the understatement of the century and heartachingly familiar, _normal,_ after the last few days of literal and non-literal hell. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘sounds good.’

Magnus steps away to the small drinks trolley, and Alec drifts after him like a tethered helium balloon. His phone buzzes, and he smiles at the message he finds there.  
‘Everything alright?’ Magnus asks.  
Alec nods. ‘Yeah, it’s just Izzy. I told her that if she starts feeling weird again, after the heavenly fire, she needs to go straight to the infirmary. She told me to _stop worrying and enjoy my evening.’_  
Magnus raises an eyebrow. ‘You? Stop worrying? I thought she knew you better than that.’

Alec smiles, not quite able to laugh at that while half his thoughts are still on seeing Izzy collapse, on the fear when Magnus couldn’t heal her -  
He winces a little, struck by a small stab of guilt, now that he’s out of the moment and his head is clearer. Magnus shoots him a questioning look. ‘I can’t believe I yelled at you,’ he says by way of explanation, smiling a little incredulously at how _ridiculous_ the past few days have been. ‘I’d only had you back for – what, five minutes?’

But Magnus just hands him his drink, not looking even a little disgruntled. ‘Well, it was a stressful day all round,’ he says, a little teasingly. ‘Besides, you know what they say about the course of true love.’

They clink their glasses together – _to us,_ Alec thinks absentmindedly – and as they drain their glasses probably faster than is advisable, he breathes deeply and tries to anchor himself in the moment. _This is real. We’re home. Everyone’s okay, and we’re back_ home.

He puts his empty glass to one side, and steps forward to loop his arms around Magnus’ waist, closing his eyes as he rests their foreheads together. ‘I missed you,’ he whispers.  
Magnus returns the gentle embrace, one hand moving up to slowly tousle the hair at Alec’s nape, and Alec melts a little into the touch. ‘I missed you too, Alexander,’ Magnus says, his voice wavering just a little, before he closes the scant distance between their lips.

The kiss quickly turns heated, and as they stumble towards the bedroom, refusing to break it, it’s so familiar that if he weren’t completely preoccupied, Alec would want to just stand there for a while and marvel that Magnus is _back,_ he’s _safe,_ they get to _have_ this again –

They open the door to the bedroom, and he feels Magnus pull away abruptly. ‘Magnus, is-‘  
But then Alec feels it, too – a wave of despair crashing over them, making him shiver as if they’re standing out in a cold wind, not safely inside their cozy loft.  
He reaches out, suddenly needing the reassurance of contact. Magnus obliges, linking their hands together; even as he steps forward, onto the thick bed of marigolds that Alec had completely forgotten about until this moment.

He pulls Alec down with him as he crouches close to the flowers, gently brushing against them with his free hand. ‘I don’t understand,’ he murmurs. ‘If I wasn’t here…’  
He trails off, and looks sharply back at Alec, his eyes widening briefly in understanding before his expression softens in sympathy. Because Magnus’ magic isn’t the only way the flowers can manifest. Not if the feeling is strong enough.  
Alec, for his part, just gazes back, open. He has nothing to hide from Magnus. Not about this.

Magnus pulls them both back up to standing, one hand coming up to cradle Alec’s jaw as the other breaks away from their hold, waving in a complicated pattern until every last marigold disappears in a blink of blue magic. ‘I love you,’ Magnus murmurs.  
Alec swallows hard. ‘I love you too.’  
And then they’re kissing again, and with the weight of despair lifted from the room, Alec sets out to show Magnus just how much he means it.  


***  
  


Magnus wakes first, and the first thing he realises is that he’s on the wrong side of the bed.

_Alec was half-asleep by the time Magnus stepped back into the room, and Magnus had chuckled. ‘Did you forget which side yours was while I was away?’ he asked.  
Alec had blinked wide in realisation, before his face screwed up once more in a yawn. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I just – You’re back now, you can-‘  
But Magnus had just climbed into the other side, too fast for Alec to do more than shuffle over a few inches. ‘It’s okay,’ he said softly, before flashing a flirtatious smile. ‘The view is just as good from this side.’ _

_Alec had rolled his eyes, which was quite a feat when they were half-shut, and Magnus had laughed again, his heart brimming with quiet joy as he settled close to his fiancée. ‘Go to sleep,’ he said. ‘You need it.’  
‘Hmm. You too,’ Alec had mumbled.  
He was asleep too quickly to hear Magnus’ murmured reply. ‘I will.’_

The second thing Magnus realises brings a huge, soft smile to his face. He’s on the wrong side of the bed – _their_ bed. In the loft. Because he’s _home._

He rolls over gently, trying not to wake Alec, and his heart swells with affection. _I love you,_ he thinks, his hand reaching out almost of its own accord to tuck away an unruly lock of Alec’s hair. Above their heads, sweet pink and white honeysuckle blossoms perfume the air, and he breathes deeply, overwhelmingly content. _I love you more than anything.  
  
_

***  
  


‘Isn’t this bad luck, or something?’ Alec asks, as Magnus leads him into the ceremony hall. ‘Seeing each other again before this evening?’  
Magnus laughs. ‘Well, typically that superstition refers to not seeing the _bride,_ specifically, so I think we’ll get away with it. Besides, there’s something I need you to do before you go see Maryse.’

He waves his hands, and there’s a soft _thump._ All along the aisle and around the edges of the room, long, low trays of earth appear, and Alec feels a smile spread across his face in understanding. ‘I know I said I’d sort the décor,’ Magnus says, ‘but this seemed appropriate. Besides,’ he continues, taking hold of Alec’s hand, ‘whatever you manifest is likely to overtake anything I choose, anyway. Thought we’d just cut out the middleman.’  
Alec feels like he ought to at least pretend to be offended, but seeing Magnus’ beaming, joking smile, it’s impossible to do anything but return it.

They walk down the aisle hand in hand, their footsteps echoing amongst the empty seats. When they reach the dais, Magnus turns them around, and they survey the room.  
There’s a myriad of flowers in every tray, but Alec’s eye catches on the golden peonies which dominate the aisle, and the tall, blue, trumpeted spires lining the walls. What’s more, away from the intended earth, ivy wraps around the seating, the windows, the doors.

Alec turns back to look at Magnus, his heart skipping a little faster than normal. ‘What do you think?’  
Magnus reaches one hand up to the back of his head, pulling him in to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Perfect.’

  
That evening, Brother Zachariah says, ‘It is my honour to pronounce you one,’ and Alec kisses his husband for the first time.  
Around them, gold and blue flowers bloom bigger and brighter than the sun.

***  
  


‘Alexander. Are you sure?’ Magnus asks, his voice barely above a whisper. The moon is full and bright above them, the streets of Alicante strangely quiet below. The night is blanketed by a still hush, and full of promise.  
Alec takes both of his husband’s hands, and easily finds a reassuring smile. He’s been sure about this for a long time. ‘You’ve asked me that about a thousand times,’ he teases. ‘I’m sure. I want this.’

‘I have to ask again, you know that. If you do this, there’s no turning back,’ Magnus cautions. ‘I won’t begrudge you needing more time to decide, or… or changing your mind.’  
His voice wavers a little, but his gaze doesn’t, boring into Alec like he can see straight into his heart, his soul. Alec doesn’t think that’s too far from the truth. ‘It doesn’t change anything,’ Magnus insists. ‘I love you, no matter what.’  
‘I know,’ Alec says. ‘That’s why I want to stay. I told you, I’m never leaving you again.’  
Magnus’ breath hitches, and Alec reaches up, thumbing away a stray tear. ‘Besides,’ he says, ‘Max’s hundredth birthday is going be the event of the millennium. Am I really not invited?’

It works – the tension eases, and some of the fear in Magnus’ eyes fades away as a wet chuckle escapes him. ‘Of course you are,’ he says, gesturing to the small purple spheres that are blooming around them. ‘Who else is going to organise the flowers?’

On a quiet spring night, on a moonlit balcony in Idris, there’s a dull flash of golden green.  
The air fills with the soft scent of peach roses, and forever begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This fic has been a real labour of love for me, so please do let me know what you thought. <3
> 
> [Find me on tumblr!](https://www.silver-latin-and-salt.tumblr.com)


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